


Nothing but Light

by emynn



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Homophobia, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3464690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emynn/pseuds/emynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Joan Kinney's disastrous surprise visit to the loft brings up old memories Brian would prefer stay forgotten, Justin's able to transform them into something new. Takes place during 2 x 09.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing but Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Britin 30 Day Challenge Prompt #6: _“I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise, and I wish I could sink my hands into your flesh and light lanterns along your spine so you know there’s nothing but light when I see you.” - Shinji Moon_

Brian waits until he hears the elevator make it all the way to the first floor before he goes back into his loft and slides the door shut.

Justin, of course, looks about as guilty as a puppy who just wet the floor. “Brian, I am so, so sorry,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” Brian says, but he can’t quite bring himself to look at him. Not because it’s Justin’s fault, because of course it fucking isn’t. More because he’s pissed he even brought Justin into this situation in the first place, made him play a role in his finally coming out to his own goddamn mother more than fifteen years after he sucked his first cock. The fact that Justin had managed to do so to his own parents, enduring physical and emotional abuse, including being fucking bashed in the head with a bat, while Brian had still just skulked about the shadows with his family, somehow made it even worse. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If I’d had known…”

“It’s fine,” Brian repeats, louder this time. “Christ.”

Justin steps closer, drops a hand on Brian’s shoulder. It’s normally one of Brian’s favorite gestures from him, pathetic as that sounds. When Justin touches him there, just below the sensitive skin at his neck, not in an attempt to get him off or to encourage him to pound into him harder, but simply to show him comfort, to remind Brian that he’s there and he’s there for _him_ , well, Brian can’t help but feel lighter. It’s as if with that one touch Justin physically absorbs part of what ails him, swallows it whole, and spits it out as sunshine. Brian’s given up counting the number of times that gesture has brought him out of his dark moods.

And yet this time when Justin touches him, when he places his hand on his shoulder that way he’s done countless times before, all Brian can think of is his mother touching him there and saying she wished they could be close, like they once were, and he can’t help it. He flinches. 

Justin notices, of course, and instantly recoils, as if he’s touched a hot stove.

“Sorry,” Brian mutters, and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “Fuck.”

“It’s okay,” Justin says. He glances down at his hands folded in front of him, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. 

Brian can’t blame him. He’s not sure what to do, himself. It’s his general reaction every time his mother manages to claw her way back into his life. But today, somehow, it’s worse. Just minutes before he was Brian Kinney, Sex God of Gay PA, enjoying a Viagra-fueled fuck-a-thon with his gorgeous younger lover. Now, somehow, he’s the skinny kid whose voice hasn’t dropped yet, hearing his mother gleefully exclaim what a blessing AIDS is, that it’s finally going to wipe the earth clean of the godless fags who are going to burn in hell for all eternity, how this is exactly what she prayed for and isn’t God so good for always answering prayers. He’s back to being that kid who doesn’t know anybody like himself yet, so he pretends he doesn’t hear what his mother’s saying and makes excuses to go hide in his room, where he wastes far too much time wondering if she’d change her mind if she knew he liked boys.

He’s even dreamed about it, more than once, and not even just in his childhood. “Mom,” his dream self always says, and takes her hand. “I’m gay. Do you… still love me?”

Brian always wakes up before he hears her answer, but it’s just as well. He’s always known. 

“Did she…” Justin’s voice trails off. He can’t use his hands, and now it seems his words are failing him, too.

“The usual,” Brian says. “I’m gay so I’m going to hell. Not a big surprise. I only spent eighteen years hearing her say that about every other fag in the universe. Why should it make a difference that I’m her son?”

“It should make every difference,” Justin says, sounding so indignant that Brian can’t resist a small smile. “You’re her _son_.”

Brian shakes his head. For the longest time he’d believed that Joan Kinney simply didn’t want a son. He hadn’t once bought her sob story about not getting an abortion because she already loved him. The only reason Joan Kinney didn’t abort him was because she didn’t want to burn in hell with the other irresponsible whores who killed their babies. She didn’t want a second kid any more than Jack Kinney did.

But now he knows differently. She _did_ want a son. Just not the kind of son Brian ever could have been. He doesn’t know why the thought gnaws at him so harshly. Why the fuck should he care about the opinion of a woman who told him she’s so happy she didn’t abort him the way his father wanted her to as easily as some mothers said “I love you” at night? Why should he want the attention of a woman who’d wake him up when his father got home from the bar so she could plead “not in front of the children,” even though she knew that never fucking worked? Why would he want her to feel she could trust him, want her acceptance, want her to be proud of _him_ and not just the fact he’d managed to get in shape and land a high-paying job after graduation?

Christ, he’s fucking pathetic. 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Brian says. “We share some DNA. That doesn’t make us obligated for to have some kind of relationship, to _love_ each other.”

“Bullshit,” Justin says. “Your mom’s supposed to support you no matter what, to accept you for who you are, to want you to be happy even if she doesn’t agree with all your decisions.”

“Yeah, maybe your mother,” Brian says. As far as mothers went, Justin hit the fucking jackpot with Jennifer Taylor. But that made sense. Justin’s passionate and compassionate, brave and loyal, nearly to a fault. Of course he’d have an exceptional mother who was all the same things. The universe wouldn’t settle for anything less.

Justin frowns. “And she brought you a cake. Do you even like chocolate cake?”

Brian shakes his head. It’s one of his earliest memories, a week before his fourth birthday, and his mother asked him what kind of cake he wanted. He didn’t know, since he cared more about his train set than about sweets, but he knew his mother liked chocolate, so that’s what he chose. And so his mother had spent days telling everybody who would listen how she was making her baby a chocolate chocolate chip cake _from scratch_ , and how she was _slaving_ over the recipe but it would all be worth it because Brian would be so happy.

The day of his birthday, Brian took one bite into the cake and announced that he hated it. His mother immediately burst into tears, wailing about how her baby didn’t appreciate her and how she had clearly failed as a mother. And so Brian picked up his fork and dutifully ate his slice of cake, and then even a second one and part of a third, even though it made him want to puke, because it was still better than seeing his mother cry. And then they’d repeated the tradition every fucking year until Brian managed to get a scholarship to Carnegie Mellon and never fucking look back.

And yet, somehow, looking back, he still felt like a selfish SOB for doing so.

“Listen to me,” Justin says. “Are you listening?”

Brian quirks his eyebrows at Justin’s casual appropriation of one of his own verbal tics, but nods. And this time, when Justin comes up to him and places his hands on his shoulders, he doesn’t flinch. 

“She doesn’t deserve you,” Justin says. “You are brave, and generous, and incredibly loving, whether you want to admit it or not. You would do absolutely anything for your friends. I know, because I know you’d do absolutely anything for me. And if your _mother_ was actually worthy of it, I know you would do absolutely anything for her, too. Honestly, I still think you do more than you should.” His grip on Brian’s shoulders is tight, almost painful, but right now, it’s everything Brian needs. “And if she can’t see that, that’s her fucking problem. Let her thinking that fucking hypocrite of a priest would be a better son. Anybody with half a brain would know the truth. She had her chance, and she blew it. So fuck her.”

Brian rests his forehead against Justin’s. Just as how Justin’s touch on his shoulder makes Brian feel as though Justin was absorbing his pain, pressing their heads together always makes Brian feel as though he’s absorbing some of Justin’s warmth. In this moment, Brian can almost believe all those things Justin says about him, that he’s not made up entirely of darkness but also light. He inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of Justin’s sweat mixed with that fruity shampoo he insists on using, and feels at peace.

“And do you know what we’re doing with this fucking cake?” Justin asks. He gives Brian’s shoulders one final squeeze, then walks over to the island, spreads out his fingers, and smashes his hand into the cake. “That’s what.”

Brian stares, slack-jawed, and then bursts out into laughter. It’s so fucking ridiculous, watching Justin gleefully pull his frosting- and crumb-covered hand out of the cake. And yet, somehow, it seems completely logical. This is exactly what they’re supposed to be doing.

He comes up behind Justin and digs his hand into the cake right next to the imprint left by Justin’s hand. It’s surprisingly satisfying, and he immediately decides it would be better with two hands wriggling around the layers. 

“Yeah!” Justin shouts, laughing. “Fuck you, Joan Kinney! Burn in hell.”

Brian turns around abruptly, grabs Justin’s hands in his own, and covers his mouth in a deep kiss. They somehow managed to get chocolate on their lips, and it’s sweeter than it ever managed to taste in his mother’s cake. When they part, Brian can’t resist swiping the tip of Justin’s nose with his finger, leaving behind a splotch of chocolate frosting, which he then carefully licks off.

“We made a bit of a mess,” Justin points out, and it’s true. There’s cake and frosting all over the island, on the floor, on their pants, hell, even in Justin’s hair, and Brian’s sure he hasn’t emerged unscathed, either. “How about we go in the shower and get clean? I’ll even wash your back for you.”

Brian nods and takes Justin’s sticky hand in his crumbly own, leading him to the bathroom. 

Justin Taylor, once again cleansing him of his sins, transforming the memories of his past he'd hoped would stay forgotten into something joyful, making him feel like more of a man and more alive than he ever has before. Brian’s fucked thousands of men in search of this feeling, and Justin manages to accomplish it with the lightest of touches, with laughter and joy. Now, nothing but light remains.

It’s more than Brian’s ever expected, it’s more than he deserves, and it’s just all so un-fucking-real that he can still hardly believe it. But as he stands there in the shower, feeling hot water stream down over them, relaxing as Justin’s hands massage his shoulders and his back, Brian thinks that maybe, _maybe_ he actually does.


End file.
